


Five

by unsettled



Category: Inception, Snatch
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-25
Updated: 2010-12-25
Packaged: 2017-10-14 02:45:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/144498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unsettled/pseuds/unsettled
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i> He can land five measly blows on that skinny wretch.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Five

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Match](https://archiveofourown.org/works/144496) by [unsettled](https://archiveofourown.org/users/unsettled/pseuds/unsettled). 



Yeah, he'd been … intrigued when that skinny little bit of nothing but ink and sweat and amusement that's not even pretending to be hidden had taken him out, taken him out with a brief flurry of blows and one stinging, ringing punch that left him reeling, left him aching and spitting blood, the tang sharp in his mouth. He'd been intrigued.

Well, that's one word for it.

But intrigued doesn't quite sum up the coil of lust that heated him when he caught the pikey's eyes lingering on him from across the ring, caught himself thinking of how much better those fine lines of ink would look curving over the reddened mark of a bite, bruised and tender.

When he rolled over on the floor of the ring, dazed, half blinded and wondering if he'd lost a tooth or two, and watched the pikey look down at him and lick the back of his knuckles, the blood and sweat and oh yeah, yeah, there was something there.

Something that wouldn't come up until they'd met more than once, exchanged more than a few cautious nods and names – _Mickey, Eames_ – cautious handshake with no edge of trying to out do the other in some test of strength. They'd already had their test; there was no test with conclusive results.

Something that'd only come up when Eames agreed to a challenge posed, half mockingly, of landing five blows on the pikey – on Mickey. Sure, he could do it. He's sure of it. Mickey's good, Mickey's fast, Mickey's like a fucking dancer sometimes, the way he moves, but Eames is top of the bunch. He can land five measly blows on that skinny wretch.

He's wrong.

He lands two, and dammit, Mickey's just playing with him, just taunting him and _letting_ him catch him, _letting_ him leave a mark. How could he stand for that? How could anyone? Is it really such a surprise that he decides this isn't a real fight, there's no crowd, no rules – no rules? So maybe he's the one to break the rules that don't exist and lunge forward and bite at that tempting curve of muscle where neck meets shoulder, sheened with the salt bitterness of sweat.

But Mickey's the one who moans.

And there's no mistaking it. No mistaking it, just like there's no mistaking the way Mickey's hand latches onto Eames' arm, fingers tensed and tight enough that even those short bitten nails are digging in. No mistaking the reaction when Eames drags the pads of his fingers over skin, curls them and scrapes nails down the side of Mickey's abdomen, red lines on top of black. A simple design, over the complex.

He hooks a hand in the waist of Mickey's trousers and hauls him in closer, close enough to bite at those lips, feel the pikey's beard harsh against his skin, a kiss that's returned in double, in triple, harsh and vicious and full of want want want. Mickey's other hand slides down, slides round to the small of his back, tape wrapped palm catching on Eames' skin and _god_ , that's enough of that.

He pulls back, draws his arm back and plants his fist right in that smug, swollen, delicious mouth.

Mickey goes down, sprawls on the floor all slitted eyes and gasping breaths, heated and gorgeous. Eames drops to his hands and knees above him, straddling him, leans down and places his lips a hair above Mickey's.

"Three," he says.

Mickey blinks at him, and then tilts his chin back and laughs, a surprisingly delighted sound, then spreads his legs apart a little more and grinds up against Eames' thigh. Eames hisses. Settles his open palm against Mickey's neck, curls his fingers round and in and tight, hair tickling them.

Mickey doesn't try to stop him. Half closes his eyes and Eames can _feel_ the moan hiding in his throat, can feel the shudder that runs through his body, can feel the heat of Mickey's flush. He leans forward a little, pressing against Mickey's cock, still trapped in his trousers, and kisses him again, kisses the gasps right out of him. Takes his hand off Mickey's throat and goes for his the zipper of his own trousers, the wrapping on his palm almost too harsh against the skin of his cock, hard and already wet. There's a moan that catches in the back of his throat as well.

He shifts back, settles back on his knees, hand still wrapped around his cock, and hits Mickey again, strikes him with the back of his palm, open, a sharp, ringing smack and the way his head snaps to the side is fucking _perfect_ , and the sound Mickey makes isn't exactly distress now, is it?

"Four."

And then Mickey's scrabbling at him, fighting to get his hands on his cock. "No," Eames tells him. "No," and Mickey whines, like some needy creature and it's just what Eames needed to hear. He presses his palm against Mickey's cock, presses hard and Mickey gasps, his hips rocking steadily, frantically, and then, then his eyes close and his throat stretches out into a long, lean line that Eames can't resist adding another bite to as he comes.

He slumps under Eames, eyes dazed and panting, boneless, and yeah, maybe Eames had been thinking that four was enough, maybe he'd been thinking he'd let Mickey win this one because after all, he hadn't been playing fair, now had he? But oh, look at him there, how can he resist?

 _Crack._

"Five."


End file.
